


Mycroft's Secrets

by FrancescaMonterone



Series: Mycroft's Law [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Sherlock, Brotherly Love, Christmas, Cuddling, F/M, Family, Fluff, Holmes Brothers, John is a Good Friend, Kittens, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft's Meddling, Post-Reichenbach, Texting, Worried John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 06:34:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10077626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancescaMonterone/pseuds/FrancescaMonterone
Summary: Something's off with your brother.Sherlock's reply came when he had just sat down with a cup of tea and the paper.And you only noticed that now?John chuckled into his tea. Good point.He asked a favor.The answer came very fast this time.Don't do it. Whatever it is, don't.Too late, I already agreed. It's harmless. Just a lab test.It's Mycroft. Harmless is not an adjective fit to describe my brother.





	

The flat was too clean and too quiet and Sherlock wasn't around to make a mess or fill it with deductions and the song of his violin.

John stared moodily into his cup of tea. He was not made for solitude. There had always been someone; first his family, then school friends, roommates and classmates at college, his comrades during his time in the army. And finally, Sherlock.

Sherlock, who with his all-demanding, all-consuming personality had somehow filled the spaces left by all of the above.

 _He won't be gone for long. A few days. A week at most_ , John tried to console himself. It had already been three. Time enough for a joint effort on his and Mrs. Hudson's part to leave the flat in nearly pristine condition. Time enough for Lestrade to call three times - _three bloody times -_ and ask when his consulting detective would be back.

Time enough for John to miss Sherlock.

His phone buzzed and John's head shot up. His hand reached out for the device with undue eagerness... but the text was not what he expected.

**_John, I need a few things_ ** _._

Despite himself, John smiled. **_Do you now? How's Switzerland?_**

**_Cold. Boring. Irrelevant. - I need a copy of Dante's Divine Comedy, hard cover, in the original Italian, a bottle of Channel No. 5 and two kittens._ **

John's eyebrows rose. **_Dare I ask? Can't you get any kittens in Switzerland? They have farms there, don't they? There are always cats around farms._**

**_Not the point. I need those things by Wednesday._ **

John sighed. **_Any specifications on the kittens?_**

**_Fluffy._ **

John's mind supplied him with the image of Sherlock cooing over baby cats. No, wrong. Just... wrong. Sherlock holding two kittens as far away from his beloved coat as he possibly could. Better. Sherlock choosing two kittens for whatever hideous experiment he had in mind. Not so good. But probably closer to the truth. That thought was worth another sigh.

**_Alright, Sherlock, two fluffy kittens coming up. What am I supposed to do with them?_ **

**_I'll be back on Wednesday._ **

As if that answered everything...! But John felt his heartbeat accelerate slightly.

The perfume was easy enough, and after a few calls to various bookstores in the area, he located one that promised to procure a copy of the book in time for Sherlock's return. John still wondered what sort of experiment asked for such an unusual combination of ingredients, and he dearly hoped that the kittens were meant to survive whatever tests Sherlock was planning to conduct on them. John had a weakness for helpless creatures.

Before he could set out to find Fluff A and B, though, Mycroft got in the way.

He had a habit of doing so, John had found.

The sleek black limousine followed him for two blocks before he noticed it, and when he did, John did not bother to hide his exasperation. To his surprise, it was not Anthea the Mysterious who had come to pick him up. It was the master himself.

"Mycroft," John greeted him. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" _Misfortune_ , his mind supplied.

"John." Mycroft smiled his polite, superficial smile that did not reach his eyes. He waved a vague hand at the bags John was carrying. "Last minute Christmas shopping?"

"Something like that," John muttered.

"I see. Well, don't expect any gifts from my brother, he despises Christmas and has never seen the point in giving someone something that they could just as well buy themselves."

John shrugged. Mycroft was not revealing any shocking new facts here; he had known or at least suspected that Sherlock would be indifferent to Christmas and the associated social customs.

"It is a bit cold out here, Mycroft, and I have things to do, so... would you mind telling me why you stopped by?"

Something passed across Mycroft's face, the briefest flicker of an emotion that John could not classify. Odd. "I have a... favor to ask."

John's eyebrows rose. Mycroft asking him a favor...? Maybe he was dreaming. Or maybe he had accidentally crossed the threshold to a parallel universe while exiting the perfumery.

Mycroft seemed nearly as uncomfortable with the idea as he was, which made sense. If John did whatever it was he would ask, Mycroft would owe _him_ a favor. And wasn't that a lovely thought? John was fairly sure that such a thing would sooner or later come in handy... rather sooner than later.

"You have access to a laboratory equipped for genetic testing," Mycroft stated.

"Yes...?" _So do you, though. Several labs, probably, and the best in the country._

"I need you to run a test for me. Discreetly."

Warning bells began to ring inside his head. The request was... suspicious, to say the least. Especially since it made no sense at all, Mycroft likely had all the  high and spy tech he needed at his fingertips, including sophisticated equipment for any kind of medical testing. Why ask John, who wasn't even an expert in the field?

He coughed. "I'm an ex-army surgeon and currently working as a general practitioner, Mycroft," he pointed out. "Not sure I'm your man for this. I'll gladly refer you to one of my colleagues who specializes in that field, though."

Mycroft shook his head. "No. It has to be you."

"Might I ask why?"

Mycroft fixed him with an inscrutable stare. "Because you are a man who keeps his word," he finally said. "And you have nothing to gain from betraying me. In fact, you might even have something to lose if you do."

 _The Holmes Brothers - we take cryptic to a whole new level of infuriating_ , John thought sarcastically.

"If I agree to this... what would it entail?"

Mycroft breathed a short sigh. He looked... relieved, there was just no other word for it. The warning bells rang even louder.

_Mycroft never gets nervous. Or if he does, it's likely a sign that the end of the world is a real possibility, and soon._

"Genetic testing on two individuals. You would meet them in person, as soon as can be arranged. First names only. Meet them, test them, get me the results and forget it ever happened."

"What sort of test?" John asked, imagining the worst.

"A genetic disorder."

John tried to figure out why that would be relevant to Mycroft's work, but he knew too little about what Mycroft did to solve the puzzle.

"If I agree - can you promise me that the results of those tests will not be used to harm anyone in any way?"

Mycroft pursed his lips and somehow managed to look slightly offended. "Far from it," he said.

Slowly, John nodded. "Fine. I'll do it."

Mycroft's expression brightened. "Oh, good."

"I will check with the lab and text you with the earliest possible appointment. Acceptable?"

"Absolutely." Mycroft nodded at him. "Thank you John."

"I would say _'anytime'_ , but... no."

Mycroft smirked. "I understand. I will be awaiting your text. Merry Christmas, John."

"Merry Christmas."

John returned to the flat, shaking his head. He put down the bags on the table and took his phone out of his pocket.

**_Something's off with your brother._ **

Sherlock's reply came when he had just sat down with a cup of tea and the paper.

**_And you only noticed that now?_ **

John chuckled into his tea. Good point.

**_He asked a favor._ **

The answer came very fast this time. **_Don't do it. Whatever it is, don't._**

**_Too late, I already agreed. It's harmless. Just a lab test._ **

**_It's Mycroft. Harmless is not an adjective fit to describe my brother._ **

And after a minute or two: **_What sort of test?_**

**_I'll tell you when I know._ **

* * *

 

 

True to his word, John had texted Mycroft the time and place of the appointment, but when he arrived, there was no sign of the elder Holmes brother. He asked the nurse who had the list of appointments - it wasn't a very long list, so close to the holidays, but she shook her head.

"No Mr. Holmes has come by or called so far. But there is a lady waiting for you."

She was an elderly woman, and when she said _'lady'_ John thought she was merely being polite, but as it turned out, there truly was a Lady waiting for him.

Lady Anne Talbot was tall and stunning, not a face that you forgot or missed in a crowd. She had vivid green eyes and what had to have been waist length brown hair elaborately braided, and she dressed with a casual elegance that screamed money. Lots and lots of it, most likely.

There was, however, a stuffed rabbit sticking out of her Prada bag, and the reason for that became apparent when John stepped further into the waiting area and saw two preschool children staring intently at the small aquarium filled with tropical fishes.

"Dr. Watson." Lady Anne - it was the name she had given the receptionist - extended a hand. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise. I must admit, I'm a bit confused. I was expecting someone else."

"Ah," she said, "he did not tell you. I should probably have expected it. Mr. Holmes does not like to share information."

_Understatement of the year._

"Indeed. Whatever happened to 'first names only'?"

She smiled. "His rules, not mine. If he trusts you, so will I. I know that earning the trust of Mycroft Holmes is a truly Herculean task. You may call me Anne, though. And these two are Maxim and Marian."

The children turned. They were about five, if John had to guess, and very obviously her children, they had the same green eyes, and similar facial features, plus a few freckles, though.

_Two patients. Mycroft might have mentioned that they are children, though._

"Hi there," John said to the children, who were eyeing him curiously. And turning back to the mother he asked: "So what am I testing for?"

A sudden shadow fell over her pretty face. "A genetic disorder. Niemann-Pick disease. I have recently learned that I may be a carrier."

Ah. Things became clearer now, though Mycroft's involvement was still a mystery. "They might be entirely unaffected if their father is not a carrier," he said. "Is he?"

She nodded.

"Oh. In that case, I see why you are worried." Niemann-Pick was not necessarily a genetic death sentence, but it generally shortened life expectancy considerably. Patients suffering from type A rarely survived infancy. Type C and B patients were known to live to adulthood, but often not far beyond. Type A was improbable in this case, though, since neither of the children appeared to show any symptoms and it usually manifested itself in early infancy. However, it was also inherited in an autosomal recessive pattern, which meant that even if both parents were carriers, there was only a one in four chance that the children would be affected.

He looked at the children. Fraternal twins. Even if one was affected, the other did not necessarily have to be.

"Very well, then," he said. "Shall we do the test?"

Both children were surprisingly well behaved and made little too no fuss when he took the samples needed for the test. They watched him, wide-eyed and curious, and both asked a number of rather clever questions about what sort of test he would do and why.

Explaining genetics to a five-year old was a bit difficult, but John tried his best.

"We are going to see if either or both of you are sick, or may get sick as you grow older," he told them. "Every person carries information inside their body, that determines what he or she will look like. It is a bit like a book. If it's written in the book that you are to have green eyes, you will have green eyes. But it could also say in the book that you will become sick sometime in the future. That's why we do the test. Because it is better to know now."

Maxim and Marian nodded solemnly.

"Well, that's it." He looked up at Lady Anne. "If you leave me your contact details, I will forward you the results as soon as possible. Or would you prefer if I passed them on to Mycroft?"

She hesitated briefly, then reached into her purse and drew out a business card. "Contact me, please. And thank you, Dr. Watson."

"My pleasure. And for what it's worth, I hope that neither of them is affected."

"Me, too," she said softly and took the children by their hands as she left.

John looked at their retreating forms and wondered just who Lady Anne Talbot truly was. Someone important, most likely. Someone who now owed Mycroft a favor... or maybe it had been the other way around and now they were even?

But it was pointless to ask such questions, and he had two kittens to find.

 

* * *

 

 

Later that day, with two half-grown kittens that the pet shelter had almost thrown at him (they were fairly disappointed that he was only taking two, instead of the whole litter) curled up on the rug, John's curiosity got the better of him and he googled Lady Anne Talbot.

As it turned out, she had both a website and a facebook page, both promoting her charity work. Most of it was aimed at underprivileged children and victims of familial violence. It said nowhere where her money originated from, but since there were references to her mother having run the charity before her, John suspected that it was a family thing.

Her CV said that she had read Romanic languages at Oxford and spent two years studying in Padua. She was also five years older than she looked like. She had been married to the late Mr. Michael Holbrooke, an investment broker with a love for the arts. He had died aged 42 a few months before their twins were born. Lady Anne had not remarried, but there were some rumors floating about the web about her and a theater actress of Italian descent who appeared to be a close friend of the family.

 _Question is, where does Mycroft fit into that picture?_ _Clever, rich, beautiful, well-connected... she could be a spy. Easily. Maybe that's it. Maybe they are colleagues of sorts...?_

She did not seem like somebody who had any secrets, but that was probably the point.

But why the secrecy surrounding the children and a possibly genetic disorder? Having a sick child was certainly tragic, but nothing one usually needed to hide, and she obviously wasn't hiding the children, since they were mentioned on her webpage.

Unless...

John held his breath. _No...!_

He reached for his phone.

**_Sherlock, do you happen to know if there are any cases of Niemann-Pick disease in your family?_ **

The answer came fast, this time. **_Why is that relevant?_**

**_Just humor me._ **

**_A paternal uncle._ **

Which meant that there was a good enough chance both Sherlock and Mycroft were carriers... who could pass the affected gene on to their children. _If_ they had any.

John's head spun. _Does Sherlock know?_

A moment later, his question was answered by another text: **_Are they sick?_**

 ** _Are they Mycroft's?_** John texted back.

 ** _They are obviously not mine, if that is what you are asking_** _._ He could easily imagine Sherlock rolling his eyes at him right now.

John decided to be gracious about it. **_I don't have the results yet. There's a one in four chance that they are, if both parents are carriers. It is more probable though that they are also carriers themselves, but will remain unaffected. How did Mycroft come by two children?_**

**_The usual method, one would assume. Ask him, though._ **

**_I do not have a death wish, Sherlock._ **

**_Pity. I would have loved to see Mycroft's face. Tell me when you have the results._ **

Of course he would. He put the phone aside, got up and went into the kitchen to feed the kittens. They pawed at his legs and gave soft mewling sounds. John reached down to pet the gray one. It had longer fur than its black companion, but they both adequately fulfilled the requirement "fluffy".

The soft cat fur felt nice under his fingertips. He did not have the heart to imagine what Sherlock was planning to do to them, even if it probably was part of a noble scientific pursuit.

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft called early the following morning, between John's first cup of tea and leaving the apartment to head to the surgery. John fancied he could _feel_ the nervous tension accompanying the words through the phone.

"Good morning, John. How was yesterday's appointment? I hope all went well...?"

John was tempted, sorely tempted, to say something like _'Your children are very well-behaved'_ or _'They have your hair'_ (because, clearly, they had), just to show Mycroft that he had figured it out despite the secrecy. Instead he said: "I do not have the results yet.  I told the lab that it was a matter of some urgency, and I am sure they'll do their best. I'll let you know the results as soon as I have them."

"I'd appreciate that," Mycroft said. "You did not put their names on the samples, I trust."

John rolled his eyes, well aware of the fact that he was out of CCTV range. "First names only, and my name, so the lab would know whom to call. And I did not run a paternity test, either, so your secret's safe. Why the paranoia, though? I'd understand if she was still married, but her husband died months before they were even born..."

Mycroft remained silent for a long moment. John could not tell whether it was an angry silence, an annoyed silence or a contemplative silence.

"You know who I am," Mycroft said at last. "Or at the very least, you have a better idea of it than most. A man in my position, John, does not have _friends._ He has allies, and he has enemies. Neither of whom can be trusted, of course. The only defense against both of them is to armor yourself in power and strength and emotional detachment and to _never_ show any weakness. Better yet, not to have any."

For some reason, Mycroft always sounded as if he was delivering a public speech, even when he was having a private conversation with someone. Force of habit, John assumed.

"So you are saying, you fear that someone might use your children against you? Might try to blackmail you, maybe kidnap them...?"

Mycroft gave a soft sigh. "Essentially, yes. The children... or Anne."

"And you try to protect them by hiding their existence."

"Rather, I am protecting them by hiding my association with them."

"Sherlock knows." John pointed out.

Mycroft huffed. It sounded somewhere between annoyed and amused. "Of course he does."

Point taken, John thought. Trying to hide anything from Sherlock was utterly futile, and Mycroft had probably come to that very conclusion sometime between the ages of ten and fifteen.

However... "You _knew_ I would figure it out, too."

Mycroft hesitated briefly. "I realized it was a possibility, yes. Eventually. Maybe not quite so fast. But I assume I have my brother to thank for that. It was to be expected that living and working with Sherlock would help you to grow more aware of what is happening around you."

That actually made John smile. "Meaning I'm not as dull as I was when we first met?"

 "Oh, I assure you, you are and were many things, John... but never dull. Sherlock and I have that much in common, we never bother with dull people. Speaking of which... do not be alarmed if my mother calls to invite you to Christmas dinner. But do not, under any circumstances, accept. Not if you value your relationship with my brother, that is."

What was he supposed to reply to _that_? "Uh... thanks for the warning...?"

"As always, I am merely trying to facilitate."

 _No, you're meddling_ , John thought. _But with genuinely good intentions, so it can be forgiven._ Mycroft's claim that he worried about his brother, _constantly_ , was obviously true. It also meant that Mycroft took a keen interest in Sherlock's relationships with other people, and interest that increased proportionally to the closeness of said relationships. While he seemed content to merely observe Sherlock's interactions with Lestrade's team, both the DI and Mrs. Hudson received periodic visits. Though apparently, he had not yet tried to kidnap either of them. _I guess I'm just that special..._ John thought sarcastically.

"Sherlock's not a big fan of Christmas anyway, is he?" John asked. "We had a bit of a celebration the first year we lived together, but I think that was for mine and Mrs. Hudson's sake more than anything else... and then of course there was Moriarty after that..." He did not need or wish to say more.

"There are some... issues regarding holiday celebrations in our family. However, seeing as this is the first Christmas you will spend together after his return, Sherlock may feel the need to do _something_ for you. Contrary to popular opinion, he is not completely insensitive to other people's feelings."

That made John smile. "You do realize who you're talking to, right, Mycroft? I know."

"Given my brother's propensity for offending others by ignoring or trampling all over their emotions, I feel the need to periodically remind you of it," Mycroft said. "As a form of reassurance, I suppose."

"If it wasn't so creepy, I would say the fact that you worry so much about my relationship with Sherlock is nice."

"Oh, but you know, John... I worry."

"Constantly, yes. And you are going to die of a premature heart attack because of it, if somebody doesn't assassinate you first. But hopefully, you will soon be able to lay one worry about your children at rest. I'll let you know about the results as soon as I have them."

"Much appreciated, thank you."

 

* * *

 

 

 ** _If Mycroft ever grows tied of politics, he should become a marriage counselor_** , John wrote to Sherlock on his way to the surgery.

The answer reached him during his lunch break. **_If Mycroft ever grows tired of politics, hell will freeze over and the British Isles will be swallowed by the sea. However, I have to agree with you. He has been studiously avoiding marriage to a woman he loves and who loves him for six years now, I assume that deserves some form of praise._**

It took John a moment to process that statement, even though he smiled at the biting sarcasm dripping off every word.

 _Anne_ , he realized. Sherlock was talking about Anne Talbot. Unless, of course, Mycroft had any more hidden relationships.

 ** _He said he feared his enemies would use her and the children against him._** Given Mycroft's position, it was not a completely irrational fear. In John's opinion, it was hardly a reason to deny their existence, though. And Mycroft no doubt had the resources necessary to ensure his family's safety. He had done a fairly good job looking out for Sherlock, and Sherlock was a lot more troublesome than a pair of ordinary preschoolers. 

**_One of Mycroft's favorite maxims is 'caring is not an advantage'. And yet he cares so much. Quite ironic, really._ **

_And this from a self proclaimed sociopath, who faked his own death to protect the people he loves_ , John thought. _Oh Sherlock._

 ** _He told me not to accept any Christmas invitations from your mother_**.  
Admittedly, he was curious to see Sherlock's reaction. Mycroft's hints had been rather vague, but that was nothing new. John often had the feeling that Mycroft actually wanted to talk about his family, about his past and Sherlock's, but that his habitual secrecy prevented him from speaking frankly. It was more than a bit annoying, too.

**_Good. Don't. Also, make sure to delete your messages, or he will do it for you. Possibly by having somebody jump you and throw your phone into the Thames. He is extremely paranoid when it comes to his secrets._ **

_And, like you, he has a flair for the dramatic,_ John thought, smiling.

 

The results came in on the 23rd, and only because John had put in a good word with the lab and stressed the urgency of this case. He printed out the sheets without looking at them and neatly folded them. Paper copies, one for each child.

The sat on his desk, looking thoroughly innocent, while he silently debated whether to have a look at them or not. On the one hand, it was none of his business. He was not strictly speaking the children's physician. Likely, he would never see them again. He should have no interest in this. On the other hand, though, he would have to face the parents - both parents, most likely - and Sherlock. It was better to be prepared.

It was with a sense of dread that he reached for the folded papers. He barely knew those children, and they were not even his patients, but he felt a strange connection.

 _Mycroft's children. Sherlock's niece and nephew._ In an odd way, they were almost family.

Drawing in a deep breath, he unfolded the papers and read. A smile spread over his face.

They were safe. Marian had not inherited the affected gene. Maxim was a carrier, but unless he fathered children with a woman who was also a carrier - which was improbable, given the odds - he would not be negatively affected by that.

He felt like telling Sherlock about it, but held back. No. Parents first.

Anne Talbot's phone went to voicemail, but he left her a message, asking her to call back. Mycroft's secretary told him that he was out of town on a matter of some importance, but promised to deliver John's 'call me'.

John went to bed that night, feeling rather happy. Tomorrow was Christmas, Sherlock would return from Switzerland, the children were fine. Perfect.

 

* * *

 

 

"John, dear, will you stop pacing about? You are making me nervous," Mrs. Hudson complained, looking up from her knitting. "He'll be here soon, I'm sure of it. He said he'd be back today, so he will be. It's probably something to do with the flight, maybe it was delayed. Or maybe he missed it and had to take the next."

John stopped in front of the window. "Can you see Sherlock Holmes missing a plane?"

"Well... no. But I'm sure it's nothing to worry about. Sit down, will you?"

John sighed, but sat down heavily on the sofa. "It's just... I worry."

She chuckled softly. "I can tell, dear. So can everyone else."

Everyone else being Lestrade and Molly, who had come over for tea. Actually, only Molly had come by for tea, Lestrade had come by for Sherlock, but upon not finding him he had settled for a cup and a slice of Mrs. Hudson's chocolate cake.

"He... I don't know." John shook his head, crumbling a piece of cake between his fingers. He wasn't hungry. Or thirsty. He just wanted Sherlock to stroll into the room, coattails swishing, and declare that he was bored. Or something like that.

Molly, who sat next to him, put a hand on his arm. "I'm sure it'll be alright, John. I mean... it's Sherlock. He came back from the dead. What more could happen?"

It was an odd way to try and cheer him up, but John appreciated he effort. Still... "He was gone for _two_ years, Molly. _Two bloody years._ "

"I know," she said miserably. "And I'm so sorry I didn't tell you, John, I truly am... you have to believe me. But I promised... I couldn't break my promise to him."

John sighed. Of course she couldn't. Poor Molly was loyal to a fault. Not for the first time he cursed Sherlock for putting her in such an uncomfortable position.

"I know, Molly. It's hardly your fault."

"I still think there would have been another way. An easier way," Lestrade grumbled. "But Sherlock and that brother of his... well, they're just both so bloody stubborn."

John was about to reply something when his phone rang. He started, expecting both the best and the worst, but the caller turned out to be Anne Talbot.

"Dr. Watson, I do apologize for the intrusion, especially since it's Christmas Eve..."

"It's fine, I did ask you to call me back. And I do have good news for you: they are both save."

"Oh dear God...!" she breathed an audible sigh of relief. "Thank you."

"Of course. I have the lab results, shall I have them sent, or just hand them to..."

"No, go ahead, hand them to Mycroft."

John noticed the slip-up. So far, she had never called him anything but _'Mr. Holmes'_  in his presence, but relief made her less careful. He smiled faintly.

"I will. Merry Christmas, Ms. Talbot. And to your children, too."

"Thank you, Dr. Watson. Merry Christmas."

John put down the phone, still smiling to himself.

"What was that all about?" Lestrade asked.

"Uh... a patient of mine..."

"You give your patients your private phone number?" Lestrade raised his eyebrows.

"Well... she is a very attractive patient," John tried to make light of it.

"Oh...?"

John huffed. "Come on. She's a worried mother. She has two small children and was afraid they might be seriously ill. I ran some tests, both are okay. They'll have a much better Christmas knowing that."

Molly smiled brightly at him. "Oh, John, you really are a saint."

John tried to hide his embarrassment. "Well... occasionally, I suppose."

"You know, I used to envy you, because of Sherlock... but now I envy him, too. I just hope he realizes..."

"He does," Mrs. Hudson cut in, before John could even think of an answer to that. "Believe me, dear, he does. He's just not very good at showing it."

"Amen to that," John muttered. "And just where _is_ he?"

 

* * *

 

 

"John."

The voice was soft, and something brushed against his cheek.

John blinked blearily into the twilit room, feeling disoriented. Where was he, exactly...?

A hand on his shoulder, no, two. Somebody looking down at him and... "You're back." His brain tried to catch up, but was slow to get into gear.

"I'm back," Sherlock confirmed. "Why are you sleeping in the chair?"

"I... huh? What?" John sat up, noticing that he was, in fact, still sitting in the armchair that faced towards the door. "Oh."

Sherlock released his shoulders, but didn't move away. He was still wearing his coat. John raised a hand to rub his suddenly aching neck.

"When did you get back?"

"Just now."

"Okay."

"John." Sherlock looked at him, face unreadable, eyes searching his face. "You called me a total of fifteen times, sent seven messages, and you called Mycroft. Four times. Why?"

Now, enough with the calm and composed attitude that he had adopted almost instinctively and solely for Sherlock's comfort. "Because I was worried, you moron!" he huffed. "Why else? I was waiting for you all day, and not only did you not show up, you also didn't answer your phone. What was I supposed to think? Where were you?"

Sherlock's expression softened slightly. "There were some... minor complications."

John raised his eyebrows. "Minor complications," he echoed. "They wouldn't have _anything_ to do with Mycroft being out of the country, too? Anything at all?"

Sherlock briefly looked away, and that was all the answer John needed. He let out a deep sigh.

"Dare I ask?"

"It's all been taken care of," Sherlock replied evasively.

John shook his head and began to slowly extricate himself from the comforting grip of the armchair. Tired muscles protested, and something cracked audibly.

Sherlock watched him, his expression cautious.

"So," John said, "case closed?"

Sherlock waved it away with a negligent hand. "It was no challenge."

"Well, then..." John turned.

"John." A hand shot out to grab his wrist. "Something is wrong." He sounded - well, what? Concerned? Most uncommon for Sherlock.

"I'm tired, Sherlock. I'll go to bed."

"Perfect. I'm coming with you," Sherlock announced, and followed John into the bedroom. He took off the coat in a flourish and draped it over a chair while John rummaged around for his pajamas. There was a rather large elephant in the room with them, but they both pretended to ignore it.

It was only when Sherlock killed the light and crawled under the covers with him, placing a hand on John's back that John finally let go of the tension within his body with a sigh. He turned around and wrapped Sherlock into a tight, tight hug. It probably felt rather like being choked, but Sherlock didn't complain. "I was scared you wouldn't come back," John whispered into the unruly dark curls, inhaling their smell.

"John. I'll always come back."

"I know, I just... you said you'd be back today, and I..."

Sherlock shifted in his arms, wrapping himself around John, as if to protect him from his own fears. "Hush. It's alright now."

They lay in silence for a few moments before Sherlock added: "And in my defense, it is only shortly past midnight. It was still _'today'_ when I stepped inside."

Despite himself, John chuckled at that. "You are impossible."

Sherlock lazily trailed a hand over his back, but made no reply.

"Is Mycroft still in Switzerland?"

A nod, felt rather than seen. "Taking care of loose ends."

"Well, that explains why I couldn't reach him either. To be fair, the first time I called him wasn't about you. The test results came in."

Sherlock's hand stilled.

"They are fine," John said. "Both of them. I already told their mother, but I figured Mycroft should know, too."

"Anne will tell him when he gets back."

"So they are... what? Seeing each other?"

Sherlock snorted. "No. But it's Christmas, and they _are_ his children. He always goes to see them."

"Do they know? That he's their father, I mean?"

"No one ever told them, but what would you think if a man who's obviously not your uncle or your stepfather keeps coming around to play with you and bring you presents, and if your mother acts like a teenage girl around him? They are children, but they are not stupid."

"How could they, if they are Mycroft's...?" John asked.

"Whether or not intelligence is inherited is still subject to scientific debate. Mycroft and I might simply be a lucky coincidence."

"I'm not sure I'd call the two of you lucky," John teased. "Maybe more of a natural disaster...?"

"Which makes you and Anne what...? Storm chasers?"

"I like the idea," John said after a moment's reflection, leaning his head against Sherlock's shoulder.

"John," Sherlock said suddenly, "I do not want to alarm you, but a cat just slipped under the blanket." He reached out a hand and came up with the grey kitten.

"Hi there," John said to the mewling ball of fluff. "I almost forgot about you guys. What are you going to do with them, Sherlock?"

"What do you think?"

"Oh, I don't know, use them in some horrid experiment...?"

"Please. You're not that dense. Two cats, John. Two children."

"Oh. They're presents," John realized.

Sherlock hummed. "Mycroft is allergic. And he'll get cat hair all over his fancy suits every time he visits."

John snickered at the image. "Sherlock, that's... well, it's very _you._ And I'm guessing the book and the perfume are for Anne Talbot?"

"A bribe of sorts."

"Because you would never, ever just give somebody a Christmas gift..."

"Boring, John. Boring."


End file.
